| There’s a song we used to know
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| A kind of weary blues
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| Some broken tune from long ago
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| Some of us still like to use
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| It hangs up high in the rafters
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| Like smoke it has no form
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| Keep it all hid like laughter
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| And sing out death, death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| We keep it all hid like laughter
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| And sing out death, death to the storm
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| I’ve caught my rage in the making
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| Alive here in my hand
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| But it bent the rod to breaking
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| And still I’m a hungry, hungry man
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| The trouble is so underrated
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| I’ve been battered, rusted, whored
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| Calling all the great ill fated
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| Who bring death, death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| We call upon the great ill fated
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| Who bring death, death to the storm
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| A line of cars is rolling westbound
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| A dark river just begun
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| The tramps are huddled in their best now
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| Like a funeral in the sun
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| A man waits on orange crates
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| His meager eyes go soft and warm
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| As women wade the deep parade
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| Cheering death, death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| Death to the storm
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| As women wade the deep parade
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| Cheering death, death to the storm |